
Class. 



T5 :> 



■^ r ij 



BooL_uM- 



A 



Copiglitl?- 



COFKRICHT DEPO«r. 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

AND 

OTHER POEMS 



By FRANCIS CARLIN 
MY IRELAND. Poems, $1.50 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
Publishers New York 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 



POEMS BY 

FRANCIS CARLIN 




NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1920 



.^?^* 

f*/^ 



^^* f^ 

K^ 



Copyright, ig2o 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



MAV 24 1920 



.sro 



©CLA571081 



For permission to set any of these poems to music, com- 
posers should apply to the author through the publishers. 
The author's thanks, for the privilege of reprinting 
certain poems in this volume, are due to the editors of 
the Books and the Book-World of the N. Y. Sun, America, 
Philadelphia Public Ledger, Boston Transcript, Ave Maria, 
the Boston Piloty New Republic, Irish World and the 
Smart Set. F. C. 



The book that has its beginning here 

is inscribed to the 

National Guardian Angel of the Gael, 

from Whose wings the Poets gather 

unworldly Music; 
by Whose sword each Generation 

has been Knighted; 
and Whose breath is on the ancient 
fire of Faith. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Cairn of Stars 3 

Whom Should I Meet 5 

The Changeling 6 

Cow-Time 7 

A Girl's Song 8 

The Spendthrift 9 

The Black Swans 10 

White Fire 11 

Mac Diarmod's Daughter 12 

The Newsmonger 13 

The Two Riddles 15 

Lese Majeste 16 

The Holiday 17 

The Two Brothers 18 

The Calf-Boy 19 

The Market Town 20 

Virgins 22 

The Berry-Blossom 23 

The Seventh Son 25 

Ballad of Hackettstown 26 

Lough Fanny 29 

The Ruined Wonder 30 

A Munster Marriage 31 

Pegeen 32 

Letter-Blocks 33 

Goslings 34 

The Buried Bell 35 

The Corn-Spirit 36 

[vii] 



' CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Above and Below 37 

The Twin Angels 38 

An Irish Madonna 39 

The Home Song : . . 40 

The Blue Moon 41 

The Knights 42 

It Is Written 43 

The Orator 44 

The Kitchen Nook 45 

The Tailors 46 

The Hay-Maker's Lullaby 47 

Crickets 48 

The Convoy 49 

For a God-Child 50 

The Lithograph 51 

The Shamrock. 53 

The Master of St. Enda's 54 

Song of the Spalpeen 55 

The Fox-Hunt 56 

The Yellow Stirabout 58 

The Elements 59 

The Connacht Face 60 

The Upper Door 61 

The Reaper's Occupation Rhyme 62 

Fodder 63 

Sums 65 

Modernism 67 

The Symbolists 68 

The Raveled Edge 69 

The Haggard Pond 70 

Place-Names 71 

[ viii ] 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Slide-Cars. .- 72 

The Land-Grabber 73 

Newtownstewart Castle 74 

The Goat-Footed Gentry 75 

White Walls ']^ 

Mottoes 78 

The Queen of Kerry 79 

The Coming of the Fairies 81 

The Two Nests 83 

The Muster 84 

The Chimney-Star 87 

The Blind Hen 89 

The Queen 90 

Mulling the Beer 91 

The Mimicker 92 

Ballyshunock 93 

Tipsy Thoughts 95 

The Spook 96 

The Rivals 97 

April and July 99 

Off to the Mass 100 

Westport in Mayo loi 

The Cold Courtship 103 

The Two Mice 104 

The Grey Plume 105 

The Argument 107 

'Tis a Pity 109 

The Ferns no 

Looking Forward in 

The Convent's Call 112 

The Lonely Woman's Acre 113 

[ixl 



' CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Cuckoo-Clock 114 

The Poor Man 115 

The Bird-Catchers 117 

Joy to You 119 

The Collie 120 

The Herdsman's Son 121 

The Awakening 122 

O Girl Unknown 123 

Shep 124 

The Long Beard 125 

The Beggar's Blessing 127 

Blowing the Fire 129 

The Fortune-Seekers 130 

Ballad of the Butter 131 

The Moon-Glade 135 

The Frozen Brook 137 

When Alone 138 

The Virgin Kiss 139 

Notes 141 



[x] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

Among the hills that kneel around 
A giant summit's ancient mound, 
I stood, one night, below a cairn 
Of stars on cloudy Mullaghairn. 

And there, amazed, I saw a strange, 
Pale Host descend the mountain range, 
As the Years, like spectral Slingers, passed 
The cairn on which Their stars were cast. 

And as I wondered who, of all 
Your Lovers, lay beneath the pall; 
A Star of Hope fell on it, hurled 
From heathery crags above the world. 

Then suddenly, as come the streaks 
Of dawn between two mountain peaks, 
Another Year came up to fling 
A Star of Freedom from His sling. 

Then came the morning, Ireland; 
But not before the fading hand 
Of the pale Star-Slinger crowned the heap, 
In a dream that would not let me sleep. 
[3] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

At last the day came up to me; 

But not before the alchemy 

Of Fate had changed the Songs I threw, 

As silver sparks, on the Lover, who, 

For all these marvels, slumbered on. 
O Ireland of the Dream of Dawn, 
When I shall rest without a theme 
In sleep that shall not let me dream. 

May some young Singer, warm of word 
Beside the Twilight's shallow Ford, 
Cast silver stones on heedless clay 
A thousand years from yesterday! 

Nor is the wish too bold for one 
Whose love was kindled at the sun; 
For one whose fire shall yet be white 
As embers on the hearth of Night. 

But 0! that I might claim a spark 
From off that mound, built up to mark 
Some long-forgotten Lover's bones — 
A cairn of stars instead of stones. 



[4l 



WHOM SHOULD I MEET 

Whom should I meet at the dawn, at the dawn, 
Whom should I meet at the dawning, 

But the King of the Wee Folk, and faith, he had on 
The jewels that I would be pawning. 

"Why do you think such a wish, such a wish; 

Why do you wish for my wealth, boy ? 
With the stirabout waiting for you in a dish. 

You are wealthy enough with your health, boy." 

Whom should I meet in the night, in the night, 

And I with the dew of my sorrow, 
But the Good People's harper who played with delight 

On the harp I endeavored to borrow. 

"Why do you ask such a boon, such a boon; 

Why are you wishing to play, boy,^ 
With a song for the morning, a whistle for noon, 

And a dream for the rest of the day, boy!" 

Whom shall I meet at the dawn, at the dawn, 

Whom shall I meet in the morning.^ 
Troth! silly am I, for the Fairies are gone 

With the wisdom that I would be scorning. 
[Si 



THE CHANGELING 

Would ye have me here for long, 
Little brother, little brother, 

Would ye have me here at all 

If ye were strong? 

For a Fairy-Woman's song 

Sends me off to dreams of mother — 
Would ye save me, little brother? 

Och! try. 

Would ye take me from the llss, 
Little sister, little sister, 

To our mother at the hob, 

And out of this ? 

For the Fairy-Nurse's kiss 

Does be on me since I've missed her — 
Would ye take me, little sister? 

Och! come. 

'Tis yourself should know it, too, 
Heedless mother, heedless mother, 

For I'm Eithne whom They stole 

From Rossnacoo 

When They left the changeling, who 
Doesn't look at all like brother — 
Would ye call me from Them, mother? 

Och, do! 

[6] 



COW-TIME 

Calling the dog, with a whistle, 
To bring the cows to the stall, 

I lopped the head off a thistle 
And a star began to fall. 

Whose was the hand to pluck It 
From the other stars in the sky- 

O surely He Who struck it 
Was not as thoughtless as I ! 



[7] 



A GIRL'S SONG 

One night we sat, my love and I, 

At the side of my father's hob, 
While a cricket sang to his bosom-mate 

Till her wings began to throb; 
And my love, he told me the fiery tale 

That made my light heart leap — 
O if 'twere not for the dreamy Gael 

Sure the world would go to sleep. 

One day we walked, my love and I, 

Through the fields of my father's land, 
While a black-bird sang, to his bosom-mate, 

What we both could understand; 
And my love, he told me the flowery tale 

That the mind of me shall keep — 
O if 'twere not for the singing Gael 

Sure the world would go to sleep. 

One morn we stood, my love and I, 

(And och ! his tears were warm) 
While a bee flew off without a mate 

O'er the hedge of my father's farm; 
And my love, he told me the parting tale 

That left me here to weep — 
O if 'twere not for the sorrowing Gael 

Sure the world would go to sleep. 
[8] 



THE SPENDTHRIFT 

I know a bright meadow and four bushy fences 
With blossoms that hide in the dark of the haw; 

But their fragrance and beauty are lost to the senses 
Of one who is always away from Ardstraw. 

And there, on a summit beside an old high-way, 
Are two mossy towers I knew as a lad; 

But the road and the ruins lie not upon my way, 
For all the desires the heart of me had. 

O Field, guinea-golden, your hedges of honey 
Are far from my world and the labor thereof; 

But while the rich bees have no business with money, 
I'll squander my thoughts on the flowers I love. 

And while the cold walls of that castle are standing 
In which, as a boy, all my fancies began, 

I'll squander my dreams on the mountain command- 
ing 
That view of Ardstraw I would see as a man. 



[9] 



THE BLACK SWANS 

The swans of the sea, 

With their billowy breasts, 
Would come to me 
Were I to be 
On the shores of Sligo 

At their rocky nests. 

And swans would pass, 
With their bosoms black 

As the wavy grass 

Of the wet morass. 

Were I in Sligo, 

On a turf-cart's track. 

O swans that glide 
To your shores afar; 

Wan dreams, beside 

Your whiteness, ride 

To the bogs of Sligo 

Where the black swans are. 



10] 



WHITE FIRE 1 
(For the Duke of Abercorn) 

White fire, my Lord, once warmed Your Grace's row 
Of tumbled homes in which wool-tufted briers 
Are growing, at the hearth-stones, where the fires 

Were red in Ulster cabins long ago. 

For once, the evicted chimney-winds, that blow 
The embers of the stars in watery mires, 
Blew o'er the wreck that housed my old grand-sires 

And the ashes, deep in dust, began to glow. 

The walls were thatched with twilight, but the clay 
Of the weedy floor retained within the house 
The traces of old cradle-marks, where I 
Have heard, my Lord, the wings of crickets play; 
The squeak of what is now a meadow-mouse. 
And the croon of a rocking thorn-bough's lullaby. 



[11] 



MAC DIARMOD'S DAUGHTER 

There is much to be said 

For Mac Diarmod's young daughter, 
And much to be sung 

Were a poet about; 
Since her eye is a mirror 

Of Ulster's Blackwater, 
When ripples shine over 

The dark-dappled trout. 

And much might be said 

For his daughter's fair dower 
Of heifers and bullocks 

And meadowy grass; 
But my head might be hanging 

From Omagh gaol's tower, 
For all the concern 

That the heart of her has. 

So I'll not spend a thought 

On Mac Diarmod's young daughter, 
But much might be sung 

Of her land and her looks; 
Since her fields are the fairest 

Near Ulster's Blackwater, 
And her eyes are dark-dappled 

Like trout in the brooks. 

[12] 



THE NEWSMONGER » 

A simple man, who yet may be 
Conspicuous in Eternity, 
Came up the long borheen and he 
Had a beggar's bag behind him. 

Meal he had from Kilnabrock, 
With the meal he had from Ballinlock, 
And the meal he gathered in Derryknock 
Was mixed with the meal from Carrick. 

He was known afar and near, but "Jim" 
Was the only name we had on him. 
Or "Jimmy the Blind", for he was dim 
By day and dark in the evening. 

Talk he had from Cloontymore, 
And gossip he had from Mullangore, 
And the tales he had from Knockanore 
Were mixed with the tales from Roosky. 

"And would ye have a bowl of tea?" 
Said the farmer's wife, "for I'm sure that ye 
Are as dry as a traveller ought to be, 
On the road that leads to nowhere." 
[13] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

"Tea I had in Gortnagirn, 
A turkey's egg In Ballydurn, 
And the butter I got from an Achill churn 
Was laid on the bread from Mullagh; 

So I've had my 'nough, good woman, dear; 
But the longing is on me for to hear 
The ways of the country, far and near, 
In the news that is on the paper." 

"Well, a tinker died in Thomastown, 
An eagle was shot in the County Down, 
And a Waterford hound has taken renown 
And the cup and all from the English." 

"Faith, the news is small enough to-day," 
Said Jimmy the Blind, as he shuffled away, 
"And for all the editor had to say 
He might as well be in Limbo." 

News he had of every birth. 
And every wake or wedding of mirth. 
And I'd give the guinea that I am worth 
For a stick and a bag behind me. 



14] 



THE TWO RIDDLES 

The Moon and Stars" and "Raking the Fire" 

Here is a riddle, children, 

I heard in Lurgybeg; 
And the guessers, to-morrow morning, 

Shall have the white hen's egg. 

Coming home for the supper, 

I saw a table spread 
With a cloth that was full of crumhlings 

And a broken hannock of bread. 

And here is another riddle 

I heard in Killybegs; 
And the guesser, to-morrow morning. 

May choose from all of the eggs. 

Squatting upon my hunkers 

Before I went to bed, 
'Tis I who saw the Living 

Being buried by the Dead. 

So here are the riddles, children, 

I heard beyond the Strule; 
And the guesser, to-morrow morning, 

May carry an egg to school. 
[15] 



LESE majest:^: 

Here, the robins are all 

As large as the rooks in Cooley, 
And the daisies grow as tall 

As the thistles in Gillygooly. 

"Hush," said my heart, "or chant 
Of your native land; 'tis your duty." 

"Ah! but my wee thoughts want 
The little things and their beauty." 



[i6] 



THE HOLIDAY 

He died in his sleep, and he'll have his fill 
Of Slumber before he can thank the men, 

Who buried him yesterday over in Kill 
At a quarter of ten. 

Yet it might have been nearer eleven, when he 
Was crossed by the spades in the Church's way; 

Though the time did not matter to him, but we 
Were free for the day. 



ri7] 



THE TWO BROTHERS 

Who has heard 
The WincTs grief , 
For this dead bird 
And this dead leaf? 

They seemed to be 

Alike at first, 

For in a tree 

They both were nursed^ 

They seemed to be 
Alike at last, 
When from a tree 
The twain were cast. 

They seemed to be 
Arrayed in red. 
As from a tree 
Each fluttered, dead. 

Who has heard 
The Wind^s grief, 
For this dead bird 
And this dead leaf! 
[18] 



THE CALF-BOY 

'Tis pleasant here to be herding calves 

And thev on the upland grasses, 
For the beetle's tune is trailed across 

The wind in the mountain passes; 
And the crickets sing when the day is done, 

As they do be singing nightly, 
On hills that seem like the hearth of the sun 

While the clouds are flaming brightly. 

But I wish the heifers were brave and strong 

And they In the valley's clover, 
And I to be going off to the fields 

With the tea and the crows and Rover; 
For all the cows on the grass In the glen 

Are out on their own resources, 
And I would be listening once again 

To the voices of men with horses. 



ti9] 



THE MARKET TOWN 

When I was ill in the long ago 

That lately seems so nigh, 
They placed a mirror before me so 

I could see the passersby; 
Market women and trading men, 

Children and ballad-singers, 
Farmers coming to town, and then 

The noisy auction-ringers 

With their '^Hark, ye! Hark ye! 
At twelve o^clock in Ballinaree — 
Twenty acres of turbary land 
To he sold at the fall of the hand.^"* 

Again I'm buried deep in bed, 

But in this looking-glass 
I see the folk who passed instead 

Of those who now may pass; 
Market women and trading men, 

Children and auction-ringers, 
Farmers coming to town, and then 

The welcome ballad-singers 
[20] 



THE MARKET TOWN 

With their ^^ Hark, ye! Hark, ye! 
The Blushing Rose of Ballinaree — 
Twenty verses of a ballad made 
For the best of the Dublin trade.'''' 

Maybe a moon in another sky 

Shall be as a mirror so 
It might reflect the world which I 

Would still desire to know; 
Market women and trading men, 

Children and ballad-singers, 
Farmers coming to town, and then 

The rambling notice-ringers 

With their '"''Hark, ye! Hark, ye! 
At twelve o' the clock in Ballinaree — 
A ploughing match with a guinea^ s prize 
For the skill of your hands and eyes" 



[21] 



VIRGINS 

It was after hearing the parish priest 

On the Gospel of the Wedding Feast 

In Cana, of the Wine and Water — 

And I on the road with MacSorley's daughter — 

That a snowy bud on a hawthorn bush, 
Aware of the sun, began to flush; 
While the sunny beauty of blushing water 
Came over the cheeks of MacSorley's daughter. 



[22j 



THE BERRY-BLOSSOM 

Agnes Lawlor walks alone, 

And they say what she desires 

Is as fair as the berry-blossom known 
To be among the briers. 

But when she comes to the Chapel-gate, 

I'll have a word or two 
With, "Agnes, girl, 'tis you'd be late 

If I had walked with you." 

And maybe she shall answer me 

With the humor of the heart: 
"If I were going to Mass with ye 

'Tis early I would start." 

Or maybe she might answer me 

With the humor of the soul : 
"And if I were coming from Mass with ye 

The silence would be droll." 

For the words of Agnes scarcely could 

Be warmer than they are, 
But the fear is on me that she would 

Not travel with me far; 
[23] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

Since Agnes Lawlor walks alone 

On her Communion morns, 
Bedecked with a Berry-Blossom known 

To have been among the thorns. 



I24I 



THE SEVENTH SON 

Old Tim has neither field nor farm; 
But they do be saying he has a charm 
Against the painful worms that gnaw 
The nerves within an aching jaw. 

And he showed me once a folded scrap 
Of writing, hidden in his cap, 
That clears the barn and dairy-shelf 
Of rats, when chanted by himself. 

And he also has another one, 
From the seventh son of a seventh son, 
By which he stops the living flood 
Of animal and human blood. 

So as I said, the heart of Tim 
Has not a care at all for him; 
While I would give my worth to find 
A charm to change a woman's mind. 



i2Sj 



BALLAD OF HACKETTSTOWN 

Among the times that cannot be 

Recalled by any one, 
The wisest man in Hackettstown 
Had a semi-witted son. 

And young Thomaus from boyhood grew 

To a blind and silly man. 
Being dark of sight and as small of wit 

As when his life began. 

One night, while sitting by the road 

That climbs above Portlaw, 
He felt the presence and the fear 

Of a thing he never saw. 

And suddenly, and suddenly, 

He knew the sense of sight; 
For the whitest thing in all the world 

Is seen by all at night. 

And suddenly, and suddenly, 

His cloudy mind grew clear. 
For many things were known to him 

When he began to fear. 

I26j 



BALLAD OF HACKETTSTOWN 

So coming to his father's hob 

With knowledge in his eyes, 
The wisest man in Hackettstown 

Had a son who was as wise. 

Next morning when the Hght was high 

The father told Thomaus; 
"I'd have you go and see the world 

From here to Carroll's Cross." 

And off he went along the fields 

With the wonder in his mind, 
But as he strode beneath the sun 

He chanced to look behind. 

"God save my soul! " he cried with fear, 

As he saw his shadow there; 
"Tis little I thought that Life and Death 

Were such a friendly pair." 

And coming home to his father's hob 

With wisdom in his eyes, 
The wisest man in Hackettstown 

Was son to the man thought wise. 

"O what have you seen?" the father cried. 

"Tis surely Death I saw 
This morning and but yester-night 

On the road outside Portlaw." 
[271 



THE' CAIRN OF STARS 

" For the whitest thing in all the world 

Is Death abroad at night; 
And the darkest thing in all the world 

Is Death in the living light." 

"But how do you know these things at all?" 

Said the father to the son. 
"I know" said he, "that the shade of Death 

And the shade of Life are one." 

And saying so, his mind and sight 

Went daft and dark away; 
According to the wisest man 

In Hackettstown to-day. 



[28] 



LOUGH FANNY 

Well remembered, by one who sees 
Lough Fanny's pool In his memories, 
Is the phantom moon that stumbled o'er 
The ripples I shall see no more. 

And now, that I recall the scene, 
It seems to me there should have been 
Some dubious stars left in and o'er 
That lake, where I shall see no more 

A well remembered moon, nor these 
Small doubtful stars, the memories 
Of which I left among and o'er 
The reeds that I shall hear no more. 



[29 



THE RUINED WONDER ^ 

I met himself above the hills 

Where noisy waters flow, 
From the stony mountain's busy rills 

To the idle bogs below; 
And he showed me where a Fairy Prince 

Had built a palace, which 
Has been a ruined wonder, since 

His Lordship dug a ditch. 

The talk he had lit up a face 

Where memories strove to shine, 
And he seemed to be as out of place 

As a poet herding swine; 
For the talk of him was on the things 

And dreams that lie unknown 
Between the fern of the Fairy Kings 

And the rod of the Foreign Throne. 

God rest himself, O'Doherty, 

Who held the little crook 
Of an April fern while telling me 

Of Abercorn, the Duke; 
And of Donnell Gorm, the Fairy Prince, 

Who built a palace, which 
Has been a ruined wonder, since 

His Lordship dug a ditch. 
[30] 



A MUNSTER MARRIAGE 

Going up to Cappyquin, 

Going up to Cappy; 
They who ride to Cappyquin 

Forever shall be happy. 
Well I mind the riding up 

In a railway's crowded carriage, 
The whiskey of the wedding cup 

And the wishes on the marriage. 

Riding up to Mellary, 

Riding to the altar, 
Riding up to Mellary, 

Who is he would falter! 
Well I mind the jaunting, far 

Away from Cappy Station; 
The bride upon the jaunting car 

And the Canon's dispensation. 

Going off from Cappyquin, 

Going off from Cappy, 
They who ride from Cappyquin 

On honey-moons are happy; 
Well I mind the hats they had, 

Going off to Cork with laughter; 
And my lonely cap, in Ballyvad, 

On the salty morning after. 
[31] 



PEGEEN 

I saw Pegeen, 

With her hair in a shower, 
Dancing as Hght 

As the rain on a flower. 

But the same Pegeen, 

In her habit last Monday, 

Was lying as still 

As the snow on a Sunday, 



[32] 



LETTER-BLOCKS 

He who plays with words 
Can build them into Trees, 

Where gay black-letter Birds 
May warble as they please 

In the leafy nooks 

Of printed books, 

And I am playing with these. 

But I remember well 

When letter-blocks, by me, 
Were strangely made to spell 

With their G and O and D; 
And I'd give my rhymes 
To be in the times 

When I played with Poetry, 



33] 



GOSLINGS 

Goslings o' mine, ye have treasures untold 
In the gold of your back; 

So beware of the hawk that Is supple and bold 
In his airy attack. 

And guinea-bright feathers, O goslings o' mine, 
Now shine on your breast. 

From which the grey weasel would suckle red wine 
In his hedge-hidden nest. 

O goslings o' mine, 'tis the young fox that schemes 
At the streams and the weir, 

While ye are as swans in my slumber^ — as dreams 
With but fancies to fear. 



[34 



THE BURIED BELL 

Off I went from the towns of men 
To the lonely waters of a little glen, 
Where they do be saying the Penal People 
Once hid a bell from their stolen steeple. 

But whether the tale Is true or not, 
I know the hollow and the watery spot 
Where the ripples dance to echoes ringing; 
And this is the why that I am singing. 



[35I 



THE CORN-SPIRIT 

Reapers, I never think of you toiling 

Out in the broihng mid-day heat, 
But what I think of the corn-crakes' troubles 
On a grassy isle, in a sea of stubbles, 

As you circle around to their last retreat. 

Binders, I never think of you binding 

Out in the blinding August sun, 
But what I think of the young larks' troubles 
On a grassy spot, in a field of stubbles. 

Where they all remain while the corn-crakes run. 

Nestlings, I never think of you lying 

Out in the dying harvest grain. 
But what I think of the Corn-Sprite's troubles 
On the green of oats in the grey of stubbles, 

While the bounds grow less, because of the Slain. 

August, I never think of you shining 

Above the whining of moon-mad hounds, 
But what I think of that Spirit's troubles; 
And She abroad in a place of stubbles. 

As the Soul of the Dead, where the sheaves are 
mounds. 

[36] 



ABOVE AND BELOW 

The flying wild-ducks sing a sound 
Like the noise of bees that hive in the ground; 
While the bleat of the lofty snipe is like 
The piteous cry of a goat in a dike. 

And maybe the strains of the Angels are 
Like the singing bells of Castlebar, 
Where the tongues of roosting crows rehearse 
A hullabaloo like a rhymer's curse. 



l37l 



THE TWIN ANGELS 

Upon two little graves I know, 
Two sun-beams fell as the golden snow 
That tiny breezes drifted up 
To fill a double butter-cup. 

And on those simple mounds at night 
These golden cups retain their light; 
For yellow stars, from a single stem, 
Look in the dew that shines on them. 

But brighter than a flower or star 
At these twin graves of children, are 
Two watchful Angels, waiting for 
The laugh of him, the smile of her. 

Two lonely Angels, clad and curled 
As Twins, now waiting in the world 
To hear the higher Seraphim: 
"Awaken her! Awaken himl" s 



[38 



AN IRISH MADONNA 

As a mother, here in Western Donegal, 
Ties quiltlets with a knowing cradle-knot 
On a slumbering baby's feet, that he may not 

Go wandering should the Banshee cry Her call; 

Young Mary swathed the Infant in her shawl 
And crooning psalms, she laid Him in His cot; 
While twinklings of a chimney-spark begot 

A dream of star-lit Angels in a stall. 

The door-way flushed a stream of sunny joy 
To the peasant Babe; but Mary, at the sill, 
Beheld a form that faced her on a crest — 

Two creels of turf that flanked a mounted boy 
Who, riding on a donkey, crowned the hill 
Like cross against the sun's enchanted West, 



l39] 



THE HOME SONG 

A Poet sang from out the book 
That I was reading, where 

The woods were parted by a brook 
That also sang an air. 

And of the two old songs I heard, 
I liked the brook's the best; 

Until a finch began a third 
Above his busy nest. 

'Twas but to me the Poet sung, 
While the brook sang to an Elf; 

But the finch, I overheard among 
The woods, sang to himself. 



f4o] 



THE BLUE MOON 

Memory Is as blue 

As the small flax-flower's dew, 

The twilight's distant skies 

And your far eyes : 

Blue as the meadows seen 

In reality as green; 

Blue as the broad moon-light 

That is really white. 

Memory is as blue 

As the world that relates to you, 

From the heavens, over all, 

To your blue shawl: 

Blue as the roads that may 

Once more be a dusty grey, 

For one whose sight of mind 

Is color-blind. 

Memory is as blue 
As the winds that sally through 
The dark blue shadows, deep 
In your blue sleep : 
Blue as your lips, to be 
That red reality. 

Which I shall meet when the light 
Of the moon is white. 
[41] 



THE KNIGHTS 

Confirmed as soldiers of the Lord, 

To-day in Ballingap, 
Are they who wore the wooden sword, 

The belt of rope, the harness strap, 

And paper helmets, on their curls. 

Which, playfully, they broke. 
These are the soldiers, boys and girls. 

Whom the Bishop knighted with a stroke. 



[42I 



IT IS WRITTEN 

Here, Martyrs lie, whose Angels led them on 

To the cloud they rolled from Ireland's Easter Dawn; 

While Freedom wrote for Emmet's waiting grave: 
"No Power may brand God's image as a slave!" 

Behold his living cenotaph in flame 

On hearth-stones of a Nation — there, his fame. 



^ 



[43 1 



THE ORATOR ' 

I sat within a vast Cathedral's walls, 
Among the martial people of the Gael 
Whose regiment, before the altar-rail, 

Placed battle-standards torn by Rebel balls. 

Grey men whose youth had known sad muster-calls 
Sat rank by rank, and there, in marble mail, 
St. Michael stood on guard before the Grail 

With a sword of stone from Gothic arsenals. 

And when, at last, the orator had won 
My fancies from the bugle's silvery blare, 
Still calling in a faint and lingering sound; 
The Dead of old whose deeds were grandly done, 
Were seen, with pike and battle-axe, to share 
In the glory that a golden voice had crowned. 



44] 



THE KITCHEN NOOK^ 

These rosin candles on the shelves 
Fling little spattering fires about, 

Like stars that scintillate themselves 
Until they sputter out. 

And since they seem alive with light, 
I'd rather see their twinkling breath 

Than silent tallow-dips, so white 
In their smoky dreams of death. 

For every night when Darby lights 
His black duidin within the nook. 

He puts the talk on ghostly sights, 
Till the children see a spook 

In the air on which he blows a puff, 
As though a spirit left his lips; 

So the kitchen nook is queer enough 
Without the tallow-dips. 



[45 



THE TAILORS 

A thorn-tree stands, in the hedge that runs 
'Tween Rally's sheep and Gleeson's cows, 

Without a flower for all the suns 

That passed above its crooked boughs. 

Yet the barren side of the ancient bush 
Is white with tufts from woolly sheep, 

While the leafy side conceals a thrush 

Whose songs make dreams within my sleep. 

And of them all, I like the best 
The song about the Tailor-Elves 

Who, having lined the thrush's nest, 
Made woolen mantles for Themselves; 

Against the times when Gleeson's corn 
And Hally's hay shall fill the field 

On either side of the hedge's thorn. 
Wherein the thrush is still concealed. 

Sure, his song agrees with what I saw; 

But being old, I only mind 
The tufts of wool upon the haw 

And Winter's brier-broken wind. 
[46] 



THE HAY-MAKER'S LULLABY 

(Behind a cock of hay) 

The ribs of new moons 

Are the rockers that hold 
My cloud-covered lark, 

And the cradle is rolled 
By the foot of the Wind, 
Shoo-ha-loo, Shoo-ha-loo, 
By the foot of the Wind 
As I croon you to sleep. 

The ribs of the waves 

Are the rockers that hold 
My spray-covered gull. 

And the cradle is rolled 
By the touch of the Tide, 
Hush-a-hoo, Hush-a-hoo, 
By the touch of the Tide 
As I sing you to sleep. 

O the bent willow-boughs 

Are the rockers that hold 
My leaf-covered bird, 

And the cradle is rolled 
By the swing of the Tree, 
Lu-la-loo, Lu-la-loo, 
By the swing — let me see — 
Why, the baby's asleep! 
[47] 



CRICKETS 

The homely crickets, out of doors 

With a sound for a song, 
Are often heard on the kitchen floors 

Of Doonnalong. 

It is how they come to the hob and crook, 

But Hke one who begs 
Between a pair of crutches that look 

Like a pair of legs. 

And they as black as mortal sin; 

But their songs are the prayers 
They do be saying, when I latch them in 

And go off, upstairs. 

Masha, many crickets do often come 

When the door is ajar; 
But, thanks be to God, they are never dumb 

As some beggars are. 



[48] 



THE CONVOY ^ 

Fairy Tree, 

The Cavalcade, 
That went with Ethna Carhery, 

Has not returned to your gentle shade! 

Buds of the furze, 

Were you not the golden plumes they wore 
While thorns were tiny spurs ? 

Birds of the gorse, 

Were you not the winged mounts that bore 
Them off upon their course? 

Winds in the whin, 

Are you not as echoes waiting for 
Their music to begin? 

Fairy Tree, 

The Cavalcade, 
That went with Ethna Carhery, 

Has not returned to your gentle shade! 



149 



FOR A GOD-CHILD 
(D. F. G.) 

David Francis, boy of mine 
By the right of laws Divine, 
Every night before you nod 
Please remember me to God. 

David was the youth by whom 
The Giant Gentile met his doom. 
Harps he had, and verses, too; 
He, who sang and danced like you. 

Francis was an humble saint 
Whom the artists love to paint, 
Being beautifully pure; 
He, the Patron of the Poor. 

Naught of Francis can I claim 
Save the honor of his name; 
Naught of David came to me 
Save the gift of minstrelsy. 

So I ask you, boy of mine 
By the right of laws Divine, 
Every night before you nod 
Please remember me to God. 
[sol 



THE LITHOGRAPH 
"St. Francis Preaching to the Birds." 

Whenever Fra Angelica 

Began to make a tint. 
He mixed his oil with Prayer^ although 
Lithographers can only show 

His colors in a print. 

A lithograph, a poor affair 
Made bright with inky paint, 

Lights up old Moira's kitchen where 
It minds her of a saint. 

She bought it at a Mission stall 

And having had it blest, 
'Twas hung upon the chimney-wall 

That holds a swallow's nest. 

"Tis old St. Francis," Moira said, 

The other night to me; 
"And the hoop of gold around his head 

Is a sign of sanctity." 

ISi] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

"But why they painted crows with him, 

And left the Angels out, 
Is more than I can tell, but Tim, 

The sheep-boy knows, no doubt." 

"They do be saying his mind is weak — 
That the Fairies left him loose — 

But that he often tries to speak 
To the birds is no excuse." 

"And I think he has the knowledge that 
Is neither learned nor taught; 

The gift of freely getting what 
Is neither sold nor bought." 

"And faith, I'll ask him just for fun. 
Why the saint, so near the crows. 

Should have a staff and not a gun; 
For surely, Timmie knows." 

Whenever Fra Angelica 

Began to make a tint, 
He mixed his oil with Prayer; and so. 
Lithographers may only show 

His colors in a prints 



52] 



THE SHAMROCK 

Blessed he the shamrock^ s vine 
That Nature wears to he a sign 
And symbol of Her Cause Divine. 

Blessed be the Sire and He 
Who died for us, and blessed be 
The Love Who binds the Trinity. 

Blessed be the Lord of All 
Whose forest lies within the wall 
O'er which the starry blossoms fall. 

Blessed be the Royal Son 

Whose thorn-tree shades His Father's dun 

Though red with starry drops of sun. 

Blessed be the Truth Who wrought 
That star-shaped leaf — a Triune Thought 
Which fell in woods where Patrick taught. 

Blessed be the Flower and He 

Of the Scarlet Dew, and blessed be 

The Vine Who binds the Trinity. 

Blessed he the shamrock's vine 
That Nature wears to he a sign 
And symhol of Her Cause Divine. 
[S3] 



THE MASTER OF ST. ENDA'S 

Cuchulain said from his chariot, 
As he rode on his grave in the glen: 

"I was a Child with children, 
And I was a Man with men." 

And Padraic Pearse might have uttered 
'Tween his grave and the firing squad: 
" I was a Youth with youngsters, 
And I was a Man with God." 



[54] 



SONG OF THE SPALPEEN 

(At the English Harvest) 

There's naught In this world that shall keep me from 
going 
Back home to my darling In far Donegal; 
For I'll have the will (when I'm done with the mow- 
ing) 
Of salmon that leap o'er the broad water-fall. 

And O that the mowing were done, were done! 

And O that the mowing were ended ! 
And I and the gold on my way, with the sun, 

To the West where there's need for to spend it. 

J' 
Yet, after the reaping, the Saxon potatle 

May keep me awhile from my Heart and a Half; 

But the ship will be supple that brings me to Katie 

Who'll lift me clean out of myself with a laugh. 

And O that the digging were done, were done 1 

And O that the digging were over! 
And I to be going the way of the sun 

To the West as a home-coming rover. 



THE FOX-HUNT 

In Ballyshunock House, before 
Large weighty platters on a rack 

With pewter mugs, a closet door 
Had a picture dangling from a tack. 

'Twas but a common-colored print 
Of hunting men in jackets red; 

Long yellow bugles, and the tint 
Of bluish brightness over-head. 

While a snarl was on the eager snout 
Of every hound; and on my soul, 

'Twas a sight to see the fox about 
Three inches from a rocky hole! 

For once, while standing mouth agape. 

And thinking out the means whereby 
He might have made a clean escape, 
Old Bill the Half-Wit, coming nigh. 

Cheered on the chase; and then, to me: 
"I wonder if they caught him, boy!" 

And though I am as old as he 
Was then, I still retain the joy 
[56] 



THE FOX-HUNT 

Of knowing-, that dull-minded Bill 

Was as much concerned about the fox, 

As the man who had the heart and skill 
To paint a hole among the rocks. 



[57] 



THE YELLOW STIRABOUT 

A riddle I have, and what did I see ? 

A slave forbidden the light of the sun, 
And she with a glossy quern at her knee 

Grinding corn in a dun. 

The burnished quern was her only light, 

And the meal was scattered by whiffs of wind 

In a dun as dark as it is to-night — 
Why, children, you all are blind! 

Now, the slave was Night and the mill, in the dark, 
Was the moon from which the Stars blew out. 

Like the sputtering flakes of meal that spark 
From the yellow stirabout. 



[S8] 



THE ELEMENTS 

Fire, Water, Earth and Air, 
Shall You not be Everywhere, 
As You are even now with me, 
When I am where I hope to be? 

Fire-Beauty, shall You bless 
My Purgatorial bitterness? 
Water-Beauty, shall I look 
Upon a Paradisic brook? 

Beauty of the Earth, shall You 

Be on the green neath Heaven's blue? 

Beauty of the Air, shall I 

Behold such winds as now blow by? 

O Fire, Water, Air and Earth! 
My hope assumes Your second Birth 
Above, for Nature's beauties fail 
To gratify the astounded Gael. 



[59] 



THE CONNACHT FACE 

It makes me glad to see the Grace 
Of God upon a Peasant's face; 

But were my words what they might be 
I would be gladder, being free 

To act the Artist, putting down 
Angelic sheen and Human frown, 

So that some Poet might portray 
The Almighty Moulder's softest clay; 

Or that in poems he might draw 
A Samson of the Ass's Jaw 

With the quiet fires of a race 

That smoulder on the Connacht face. 



[60] 



THE UPPER DOOR 

"Open a half of the door," said she 

Who was ill and sorely so; 
"Open the half of the door for me, 
The upper half, that I may see 

The crooked nest of the crow." 

"Open the half of the door," she said, 

"The upper half of the door; 
And let ye lift me up on the bed 
That I may see the over-head 

Of the out-of-doors once more." 

"Let ye open the upper door," she sighed. 

And she with a distant stare; 
And as the door was opened wide 
To another world, the woman died 

With a breeze, from wings, in her hair. 



[6il 



THE REAPER'S OCCUPATION RHYME 

As I followed the reaper along, 

While binding the corn on the way, 
I was singing a modern song 

That was made for a man In a play. 
But the rhyme of the reaper was made 

To the swing and the swish of the notes 
From the clink of a reaping-hook's blade — 

A music as old as the oats. 

Sure, who could be binding the grain 

As fast as It falls from the knife 
Of a reaper who sings a refrain 

That Is set to the Music of Life? 
A reaper, with modern men, 

Whose pleasure is part of his wage — 
O ril never go binding again 

With a song that was made for the stage. 



62] 



FODDER 

'Twas the night we sat up at the grating 

That I heard it told by the fire, 
While Larry and I were a-waiting 

For the cow to calve in the byre. 

And maybe I do not remember 

The whole of the story, but I 
Recall that each twinkling ember 

Was as red as a bull's wicked eye. 

"The night that is in it," said Larry, 
And he with his heels on the hob, 

"Reminds me that little things tarry 
In the mind like a face in a fob." 

"And I'm thinking" said he, "of the reaping 
In the times when your father would get 

The sheaf of the corn he'd be keeping 
In the rafters away from the wet." 

"And the first sheaf of oats — for the cow, Sir, 
That was first for to calve in the stall — 

Had the kernels all roasted; but now, Sir, 
We are not superstitious at all." 
[63 1 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

So at that we went out, never marking 
That no fodder was warmed at the fire, 

While the stars o'er the haggard were sparking 
Like the eyes of a bull in a byre. 



[64I 



SUMS 

When the Master said to little Jane, 
"How many days does a week contain?" 
She answered, "Seven." But Christy, who, 
Was figuring sums he could not do. 

Put up his hand and caught the eye 
Of the teacher. "Six," was his reply. 
Master Mulligan stroked his cheek: 
"Seven days are in a week 

And little Jane is right in this; 
But let us hear you name them, Chris." 
"Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday — three; 
Thursday, Friday and Saturday — see, 

Said forward Christy, "six is right!" 
And we laughed, we did, with all our might 
Till the master rapped his desk with vim. 
"How dare ye put the fun on him!" 

Said he, and then; "But you forgot 
To add in Sunday, did you not.?" 
And Chris replied, " Sure, I thought they were 
All summed with the days of Heaven, Sir." 
[65] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

The Master pondered. "Tis what I think 
Ye may all take out your pens and ink." 
And walking up to the board, he set 
The copy-line I remember yet: 

" Time is a part of Eternity; 
Now that we Are, we must ever Be" 
But as for Christy, he never knew 
That his thoughts were foolish enough to be true. 



[66] 



MODERNISM 

A'ly heavy word and a hard rhyme 

On the foolish girls, 

And they at the putting up of the curls 
Before their courting time. 

Och! but the world and the world's ways 

Have tricks and to spare, 

With the girls at the putting up of the hair 
Before they are wearing stays. 

My heavy word and a hard tongue 

On the youth in their haste. 

I would see the fluffy wind at the waist 
Of a girl and she to be young. 



[67] 



THE SYMBOLISTS 

I heard old Ned the Rhymer say: 

"Since I've not been to college, 
I'd give this Moon of mine away 

In exchange for the Star of Knowledge." 

And so I added to his line: 

(Which is a rhymer's duty) 
"'Tis I would give this Moon of mine 

In exchange for the Star of Beauty." 

"Och, hold your tongues!" the bar-maid cried, 

As we started off for Drimmin. 
"Sure, men like ye should be satisfied 

Since your wives are honest women." 



[68] 



THE RAVELED EDGE 

That which is in disorder, 

Scattered upon the skies, 
Forms the stellar border 

Of methodical Paradise; 

Whereon perhaps, hereafter, 

At the edge of Eternity, 
I shall listen to broken laughter 

Being tired of harmony. 

For that which is in disorder 
Has neither rule nor rhyme, 

Like the stars at Heaven's border 
And the troubled laughter of Time. 



[69] 



THE HAGGARD POND 

That distant beauty, out beyond 
The reach of any dream of mine, 

Is near enough to this haggard pond, 
The dung-hill and the swine. 

For after all, I need not take 
A cock's step further on to see 

That a strange clean sky is on this lake 
Beside the piggery. 



[70] 



PLACE-NAMES 

They tell me there are men who know 
The names of places on the sky; 

And that there is a map to show 
The parts In which they lie. 

But the only places, I can name 

In the heavens, are the Moon and Sun; 

For the many stars are all the same 
On their purple hills, to one 

Who knows each place-name on the way 
From Ballyard to Killycloon; 

Where Moor Lough is the sun, by day, 
That pales into a moon. 



l7i] 



THE SLIDE-CARS 

We gathered the turf in the dusky bog 
And, hauling it home on sliding cars, 

We left the moor with its murky fog 
And the mountain-side with its stars. 

But it seems to me, as I sit and poke 
The burning earth from that mountain fen, 

That we brought the fog and the stars, as smoke 
And sparks going back again 

To a misty bog that holds the heat 

Of a mountain stacked with burning stars. 

Faith, it seems to me that we hauled both peat 
And dreams on the sliding cars. 



[72] 



THE LAND-GRABBER 

Grey-blooded Gaels there are 

Whose blood was red — 
The grey-blooded Ones who are lying as still 
As the stones, on the side of a hill, 

Above the dead. 



Grey-blooded Gaels there are 

Whose blood is cold — 
The grey-blooded Ones who are living, and live 
For that which their foe may give 

Of land or gold. 

O red-blooded Gaels, I heard 

A wee girl say: 
'^Ould Ford the Grabber left us, Sir, 
On the roadj^ and I've heard the purr 

Of her kitten to-day. 



[73 1 



NEWTOWNSTEWART CASTLE 

"O the House of O'Neill is thatched with stars," 
Sang a road-side rhymer on Castle Brae, 

Where a castle stood before the wars 
From which James ran away. 

And while I heard the old man sing 

That the house of O'Neill was thatched with light, 
I gazed on the ruins where James, the King, 

Found rest for a single night. 

Where the King had slept with a coward's dream 
In the towers he burned to their ancient ground 

On the morning after, beside the stream 
Of the Strule where his guns are found. 

And gazing long on the ruins that 

Were roofed with sparks when the walls were 
flames, 
I threw a coin in the singer's hat 

And a curse at the Crown of James. 



[74 



THE GOAT-FOOTED GENTRY 

The Master says there lived In Greece 
A queer goat-footed gentleman, 

Who played the pipes and held a lease 
Of all the woods as Mister Pan. 

A Lord he was among his folk 
And a poet of the Nature School, 

Who saw the Highest In an oak 
And Heaven In a moony pool. , 

And the other day when we had read 
Two pleasant jingles that appear 

In the Second Book, the Master said; 
"The author, also, was a Peer." 

"Lord Byron was the name on him 
And the gift of Song was on him, too; 

And faith, he had a crooked limb 

That wore a strange goat-footed shoe,' 

"And children, dear. It surely seems 
That when the God of Nature makes 

A genius, to express His dreams 
Abroad among the oaks and lakes; 
[75] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

He always leaves a token of 
His justice. Did ye ever mark 

That the nearest song to God's Above 
Is in the common-colored lark?" 

And so he talked and talked away; 

But I do be thinking now, as then, 
That he might have had much more to say 

About the queer goat-footed men. 



[76] 



WHITE WALLS 

She will close the under and the upper door; 
For the turf is dying on the kitchen floor 
And the rush-light goes, from the growing dark 
Of the room, as a ghostly spark. 

She will part the curtains of the poster-bed 
And going to sleep, with something said 
Concerning Death, there shall be no 
Grey fear where she shall go. 

For when this worn old woman shall rake 
The ashy fire for to-morrow's sake, 
She will go away from this wall, lime-lit, 
And the shadow that stirs on it. 



[77] 



MOTTOES 

When the Master wrote across my slate 
The letters shaped like copper-plate, 
I used to try with an honest will 
To imitate his hand and skill. 

Though after a while, I came to see 
That the thoughts he wrote meant more to me 
Than the beautiful script that ran like vines 
Above the ruins in awkward lines. 

But to follow the perfect form of what 
He wrote was a little task to that 
Of trying to live according to all 
The mottoes he set on slate and wall. 

So, choosing the easier task, I made 
An effort to write with the Master's aid; 
But the years were on me before I heard 
That Christ had hardly written a word. 



[78] 



THE QUEEN OF KERRY " 

When vanity vexes 

The sense of the eye, 
The girls from the mountains 

Come into their own; 
And 'tis you 
Had the meekness 
So blue 
In your eye 

That my thoughts of you, cailin. 
Have builded a throne 

For the Queen of the Kingdom of Kerry. 

When flattery angers 

The sense of the ear, 
The rhymers of Erinn 

Shall lose their renown; 
And though 
You seem heedless 
I know 
You would hear, 

So my thoughts of you, cailin. 
Have tinkered a crown 

For the Queen of the Kingdom of Kerry. 
[79] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

O the past, I am certain, 

Has lingered in Gort 
Since I left you beyond 

The wide, numerous waves; 
But I've wrought 
At your jewels 
And thought 
Of your court 

Till my thoughts of you, cailin, 
Are vassals and slaves 

To the Queen of the Kingdom of Kerry. 



[80] 



THE COMING OF THE FAIRIES 

Young Oweny sat with his kilted legs 

In front of my foreign cloth, 
And we had finished the brown hen's eggs 

That were boiled by his sister Cauth. 

A rustling fire was on the floor 
Neath a chimney built on a tree, 

And the brown hen stood on a half o' the door 
Blinking at Oweny and me. 

Over the empty bowl and cup 

We had our talk, and soon 
The boy picked all the egg-shells up 

And stabbed them with a spoon. 

'Twas such a strong determined stroke 

That the hen flew off, amazed. 
"Why did you break the shells you broke?" 

Said I, while Oweny gazed 

At me as though I should have known; 

And I in my foreign cloth, 
The colored kilts on the legs of Owen 

And a laugh on the mouth of Cauth. 
[8i] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

"And didn't your mother tell you, Sir, 
To smash the shells? That's queer! 

Sure, 'tis I who thought that the Wee Folk were 
In the States as well as here." 

"You see, They came to Ireland 

A shocking long time ago. 
In the shells of eggs, you understand, 

And each one had to row 

His own wee boat across the whole 

Deep world, the people say; 
So, in every shell, we smash a hole 

In the fear They might sail away." 

And here am I with the memory 

Of the egg-shells — each a half — 
That were almost wrecked in the mind of me, 

By echoes blown from a laugh. 



[82] 



THE TWO NESTS 

The wonder was on me in Curraghmacall, 

When I was as tall as the height of your knee, 

That the wren should be building a hole in the wall 
Instead of a nest in a tree. 

And I still do be thinking it strange, when I pass 
A pasture that has to be evenly ploughed, 

That the lark should be building a hole in the grass 
Instead of a nest in a cloud. 



[831 



THE MUSTER 

And do you not as free men stand 

On Irish land now all but free; 
Or do you wait at a Triumph-Gate 

Erected to Liberty? 

Then you should know the Time is here; 

For the distant cheer grows loud at last, 
As the Dublin Men march back again 

With a Nation's mustered Past. 

"Shoulder Arms" and "Forward, March"— 
And under the Arch Triumphal, stride 

Great Spirits set on foot and yet 
Their Generals well might ride ! 

Bugles cry with mellow throats 

And the mystical notes of muffled strings, 
Soaring free to Victory 

Make echoes between Her wings. 

Over Them all is Victory's wing, 

And the Victors bring both pike and sword, 
With a banner green and gold, between 

The flags of the Yellow Ford. 
[84] 



THE MUSTER 

Over Them ail — the Tribes of Erne, 
The Munster Kern, the Connaght Men 

And Leinster's Clanns; for each dead Man's 
Dim Shadow moves again. 

Over Them all — the Hero-Hordes 

And Chieftain-Lords who onward stride 

As Spirits set on foot, and yet 
The Chaplains well might ride. 

For, rising up from out the graves 

Of unfettered Slaves and Chiefs and Kings, 
The Host comes on to that streak of dawn 

Now warming Victory's wings. 

Rory Oge comes proudly forth, 

And O'Neill of the North, in Italy, 

Has called his Men from Aileach's glen 
At the Soul-Shout of the Free. 

While young O'Donnell, long in Spain, 
And haughty Shane of the glances fierce 

Come down the Wind, with the Shadow-Kind 
Led on by Padraic Pearse. 

Hail! Leader of the lingering Dead 
Who strangely tread this living world ! 

We shout to You as Free Men who 
Uphold what You unfurled, 
[8Sl 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

In Ireland of the Waiting Years, 

Where the distant cheers grow loud at last, 
As the Dublin Men march back again 

With a Nation's mustered Past. 



[86] 



THE CHIMNEY-STAR 

The greyest things in my mother's house 
Are grandfather's beard, and a careful mouse 
That comes from behind the kitchen door 
For the crumbs my kitten forgets on the floor. 

And the brightest things in the kitchen are 
A tuppenny light, and a timid star 
That hides away until I sit 
Beneath the chimney to look at it. 

Yet what I like the best of all 
Are the pewter platters against the wall; 
For mother has promised the plates to me 
When I am the woman I hope to be. 

But the chimney-star was promised to Jim. 
"Just wait till you're married," said she to him; 
And he at the fire where mother has cried 
Down tears a-plenty since Jimmie died. 

O I wish that grandfather's beard were blue 
And the mouse were gayly colored, too; 
And I wish that the woman I'll be were big 
Enough to be dancing my wedding jig! 
[87] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

For there do be times when the tuppenny light 
And the star we have are not as bright, 
As when Jimmie and I would watch the door 
And the crumbs our kitten forgot on the floor. 



[88] 



THE BLIND HEN 

A blind hen walked through the open door 

From the earth of a haggard wild with worms, 

But she seemed to know that the earthen floor 
Had nothing that crawls nor squirms. 

For she neither pecked nor scratched the clay 
Of the kitchen's ground, where Pegg McGirr 

Has fed her by hand since the dreadful day 
That a brown hawk swooped on her. 

"Faith, the tale concerning the tempered wind 
And the naked sheep, is as true as true," 

Said I to Pegg, "for this hen, now blind, 
Is helped by the Lord through you." 

"Well, it may be so at that," said she — 

And a thought grew bright in the eye of Pegg— 

"But as for myself, I do always be 
Concerned with the blind hen's egg." 



[89] 



THE QUEEN 

God forbid 

That the dignity, 
Of the greatness hid 

In Humility, 
Should ever be seen 

As a shade of Pride 
Cast by that Queen 

Of Grace I spied. 
On a mountain tall 

Near Westport Town, 
Clad in a shawl 

And a shoddy gown! 



l9o] 



MULLING THE BEER 

He sits In the Pub as a thinker 
Of flowery thoughts, that control 

The yellowish flame of the clinker 
And the bluish coal. 

For the fancies in him have the power 
To change every flicker and spark, 

To the bud of the gorse and the flower 
Of the flax in the dark : 

And though they all come at the mulling 
Of his beer, as a matter of course. 

They never relate to flax-pulling, 
Nor to cutting of gorse. 



t9i 



THE MIMICKER 

A fool, when I asked him, muttered 
The remembered sounds he took 

From the talk of a brook that stuttered, 
And the lisp of a mountain pool 

Near Tullywisker's cloud. 

"It is wishing they were," said he. 

Then, having recalled the whispers 

Of stars beyond the brook. 
And the murmurs of Tullywisker's 

Deep watery stars; the fool. 
As he mimicked them, laughed aloud. 
"It is courting they were," said he. 



[92I 



BALLYSHUNOCK '' 

JoWy Ballyshunock 

Where the heart is always sunny; 
Jolly Ballyshunock 

Where the bees are brewing honey; 
Sure, I wouldn't be without ye 
If I couldn't dream about ye, 

For I'd wake me up 

And take me up 
Your old horheen once more. 

Hearty Ballyshunock 

With your welcome for the shulers; 
Hearty Ballyshunock 

With your dairy full of coolers; 
Sure, I wouldn't be without ye 
If I couldn't think about ye, 

For I still recall 

The fire and all 
The boots around the coals. 

Laughing Ballyshunock 

With the smiling morning-glories; 
Laughing Ballyshunock 

With the merry evening stories; 
[93] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

Sure, I wouldn't be without ye 
If I couldn't laugh about ye, 

For each simple, sad 

Occurrence had 
A humorous surprise. 

Happy Ballyshunock 

Where the thrushes sang to tease me; 
Happy Ballyshunock 

Where the swallows tried to please me; 
Sure, I wouldn't be without ye 
If I couldn't sing about ye, 

For the swallows that 

Can only chat 
Remain in chimney tops. 

Distant Ballyshunock 

Where the hounds are dreaming of me; 
Distant Ballyshunock 

Where my soul once sang above me; 
Sure, I wouldn't be without ye 
If I couldn't dream about ye, 

For I'd wake me up 

And take me up 
Your old horheen once more. 



1 94] 



TIPSY THOUGHTS 

shadowy Mountains ! 

So far am I off from the hills 
And their fountains, 

1 do not know whether 

Your purple lies down in their rills, 
Or aloft on your heather. 

meadowy Island ! 

So far am I off from the low 
And the high land, 

1 cannot tell whether 

Your heath-cocks arise for to crow 
In the clumps, or the heather. 

dream-drunken Present! 

So far am I off o'er the brine 
With the Peasant, 

1 do not know whether 

This purple is bright-beaded wine, 
Or dew of the heather. 



[9SJ 



THE SPOOK 

The most horrible sight I ever saw 

Was the soul o£ a scare-crow, gaunt and queer, 
Made of Humor, the Shadow of straw 

And a foolish notion of Fear. 



[96] 



THE RIVALS 

Low-flying swallows seem to swim 
Along the waters, that they skim, 
Endeavoring to pass beyond 
Their swimming shadows in the pond. 

And thus go I, as I have gone, 
Along the Way of Life, whereon 
The Body struggles with the Soul 
To be the first to reach the Goal; 

As water-swallows seem to race 
Their shadows to an unknown place, 
Till comes the dusk that cannot give 
The light by which their rivals live. 

O that the Soul and Body may 
Continue for to race their way. 
Until the shades of Death descend 
To part the rivals at the end ! 

But as the stars run o'er the night, 
(When all the swallows cease their flight) 
And sparkles, swimming in the pond, 
Take up the race with lights beyond; 
[97I 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

So may my spirit, shadowed by 
Her Angel, race across the sky. 
Endeavoring by pinioned brawn 
To be the first to fade in Dawn. 



[98 1 



APRIL AND JULY 

In with April and out with July: 

Thus do the cuckoos of Monaghan fly. 

In with the shadows and out with the sun, 

And I would that my passage were paid for and done. 

In with Sorrow and out with Joy: 

Thus flew the cuckoos when I was a boy. 

In with the short days, out with the long, 

And I would that a singer could follow his song. 

In with showers and out with the hay: 

Thus shall we come and soon flutter away 

From the Wraith of the Old World — the cuckoo 

and I — 
Where " Welcome " is sad with its shadow "Goodbye." 



[99] 



OFF TO THE MASS 

Off to the Mass at Kilkevin, 

I heard on mv way through the wood 
A lark singing echoes to Heaven 

And a wren crooning low to her brood; 
A green plover sung in the beeches, 

A robin cheeped hymns of his own, 
And a stone-chatter preached, as he preaches 

Each day from his pulpit of stone. 

And kneeling me down at Kilkevin 

With the people assembled in prayer. 
There was much of the Parish of Heaven 

In the fancies that came to me there; 
For the white Sabbath morn holds a beauty 

Unique for the spirits of men. 
But each day of the week and its duty 

Is the same to the lark and the wren. 



{loo] 



WESTPORT IN MAYO 

Of all the quiet little towns — 

(O Westport I am singing) 
Of all the quiet little towns 

That listen to the sea, 
I'd rather go to Westport Town 

And the steeple bell, once ringing 
The music of the Angelus 

Unheard before by me. 

'Twas Saturday and I was there — 

(O Westport I am yearning) 
'Twas Saturday and I was there 

As a pilgrim to the Reek; 
When suddenly a music burst 

O'er every lane and turning, 
And when I heard the Angelus 

I knew my faith was weak. 

For out upon the village streets — 

(O Westport I am lonely) 
For out upon the village streets 

And in the market place, 
The men began to bless themselves 

And stood uncovered only 
While welcoming the Angelus : 

"Hail, Mary full of Grace." 
[loi] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

So of all the quiet little towns — 

(O Westport I am singing) 
Of all the quiet little towns 

That listen to the sea, 
I'd rather go to Westport Town 

Where first I heard the ringing 
Of the ancient Christian Angelus, 

Now bells of Memory. 



[102] 



THE COLD COURTSHIP " 

The Wind came in from the lane to warm 

Her shivering Self at the fire, 
As I, alone on a kitchen fornix 

Was thinking of my Desire. 

I know the saying of Billy the Blind: 

" It has always been reported 
That only the pigs can see the Wind." 

But never a day he courted. 

And I know the talk of Jim o' the Sprees : 

"Only the pigs and only 
The old grey pigs can see a breeze." 

But sure, he was never lonely. 

So I fear the people of this town-land 

Know little at all of learning. 
For at the hob I saw Her stand 

While the shivering flames were burning. 

But I gave Her room on the stool and She, 
Who had chilled the kitchen fire. 

Had the long loose hair that blew on me 
In the absence of my Desire. 
[103] 



THE TWO MICE 

Into the glow of my lighted rush 

Came a kitchen-mouse, that ran beneath 

A besom made from the silvery brush 
Of birches and ashen heath. 

And 'tis what I saw but moony rays 
On birch and heather that hid a small 

Grey meadow-mouse — till I turned my gaze 
From a besom against a wall. 



[104 



THE GREY PLUME 

The long heron feather, 

O'Dogherty wore, 
Still sweeps o'er the heather 

But not as before; 
And well may the heron 

Take pride in his plume, 
With the head of O'Dogherty 

Red in the tomb. 

The valleys are spurning 

Gay flowers, beneath 
The purple of mourning 

Aloft on the heath; 
And well may the sorrow 

Of Nature be shown, 
Though the heron is happy 

In wild Innishowen. 

Bright was the bonnet 

That guided his men. 
But the grey feather on it 

Fell red in the glen; 
And well may the Saxon 

Take pride in its fall. 
While birds wear their plumage 

Above Donegal, 
[los] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

Ochone, that the feather 

O'Dogherty wore 
Should sweep o'er the heather, 

But not as before I 
Och! Och! that the heron 

Should fly with grey plume 
O'er Cahir O'Dogherty 

Red in his tomb. 



[106I 



THE ARGUMENT 

Between the dusty road to Kill 
And a grey mud-mason wall, 

A couple lived on Harney's Hill 
When I was small. 

Kind they were in deed and word 
And as peaceful as the next, 

Until they heard the singing bird 
That made them vexed. 

"The little robineen," said she, 

"Is early in his bush." 
"Sure, woman, dear o' dear," said he, 

"It is a thrush." 

'Twas then the woman started that 

Which lasted for a long 
Warm while of arguing, as to what 

Bird piped the song. 

Four seasons passed away, and then 
Said he, "Dear woman, dear. 

Do you recall that we heard the wren 
This day last year.?" 
[107] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

"You mean the willy-wag-tail," said 
The wrathful farmer's wife, 

And the old discussion that was dead 
Came back to life. 

So on that day in every Spring, 
The arguing couple's words 

Renew the case to which they bring 
Their different birds. 

And I think I'll go to Harney's Hill 
With the music of my flute. 

To settle what is surely still 
A strong dispute. 

For I could end the long discourse, 

By imitating all 
The birds that sang among the gorse 

When I was small. 



[io8] 



'TIS A PITY « 

The Hillock is lonely to-night in the fog 
With Una away on the Waterford side; 

For O'Hely's Banshee is abroad in the bog 
With a cry for his clan. 

Since Death has been always the cause of her woe, 
The white Fairy Woman mourns strangely to-night; 

For O'Hely is childless and with him shall go 
The red blood of his race. 

'Tis a pity the man has a case that requires 
The presence of Una to publish his grief; 

For O'Hely's banshee is abroad, and the Cryer's 
Sole cry is "Ochone." 



[109] 



THE FERNS 

Fire o' the Turf, 
You had little to do 
When you withered the ferns 
In the frost on the pane; 
For dead are the flowers, 
Once yellow like you. 
That warmed the lane. 

Grey are the vines 
In the snow on the sill, 
Like the sea-wrack that lies 
In the Winter-white surf; 
And the lights of the whins 
Have burnt out on the hill, 
OFireo' the Turf 1 



[iio] 



LOOKING FORWARD 

'Tis few would know the Ballyvad, 
If the bridge of Ross 
Were metal-made; 
And 'tis few would know the Ballyvad, 
If Carroll's Cross 

Were a place of trade. 

But the river known as the Ballyvad, 
Neath a bridge of steel 
May yet flow by; 
And Carroll's Cross on the Ballyvad 
May yet appeal 

To the merchant's eye. 

For the boy, now gone from the Ballyvad, 
Had the youthful knack 
Of making streams 
Turn wheels of straw on the Ballyvad; 
And he may come back 
To complete his dreams. 



[Ill] 



THE CONVENT'S CALL 

Hearts lie hidden because they hold 
The gems of Love and Love's red gold; 
But the heart I found was a useless thing- 
All treasure-trove belongs to the King. 



[112] 



THE LONELY WOMAN'S ACRE 

The straining limbs of the horses pull 

The smooth plow 
And my grassy field, that was beautiful, 

Is broken now. 

Yet after awhile, the beasts shall drag 

A harrow where 
The seed of corn shall be sown from a bag; 

But what shall scare 

The rooks away from my young shoots green ? 

For the ugliness 
Of a scare-crow's form was never seen 

In a woman's dress. 

Sure, 'twas neighborly of the men to plow 

My bit of ground ; 
But a pair of trousers and a hat, somehow, 

Must yet be found. 



[113I 



THE CUCKOO-CLOCK 

Said an ancient man who is wasting away 

In the cotter's cabin, next door; 
" I heard the cuckoo the other day 

As I never heard him before." 

"Why surely you did," said his neighbor who 
Had her mind on the clock she bought; 

"For Memory sweetened the call with Her two 
Soft notes of Time and Thought." 



114 j 



THE POOR MAN 

With an inexpensive jennet, 

And a creel upon a cart, 
And a cabin where a linnet 

Often sings to break his heart; 
It may sound a trifle funny, 

But the truth I here declare: 
Faith, 'tis not for want of money 

That I'm not a millionaire. 

All the silver in my pocket, 

When I'm coming from the town, 
Couldn't buy a copper locket 

For to match a muslin gown; 
But I've heard of golden coffers 

Stated in a marriage plan, 
So 'tis not for want of offers 

That I'm not a wealthy man. 

There's a party near the village 

Who would make a likely match 
For, with land too good for tillage. 

Any woman is a catch; 
But the matches and their makers 

Can go off to other scenes. 
Since 'tis not for lack of acres 

That I'm not a man of means. 
[IIS] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

For the gold in Wicklow's ditches 

And the land of Louth, to me, 
Would be only empty riches 

Wanting Nora MacNamee; 
But that rose is full of honey 

Which a neighbor's bride shall wear, 
So 'tis not for want of money 

That I'm not a millionaire. 



I116] 



THE BIRD-CATCHERS 

When Sheamus, a lump of a lad like me, 
Said, "Let us be off to Ballinabwee, 
With the light of a lantern, to cage the birds 
That sleep in the hedges," I blest his words. 

And off we went with a kerchief tied 
O'er the lantern's flame, until we spied 
Fitzgerald's hedge, then, turning in 
From the road, we loosened the kerchief pin. 

Down and up and down the ditch. 
We flashed the sudden light in which 
The birds awakened, and they as blind 
As owls in the sun, or bats in the wind. 

And so, before the black-birds knew 
What was on them at all, we captured two. 
With a yorlln bright as the yellow flame 
Incaged by the lantern's iron frame. 

But coming home from Ballinabwee, 
What did the both of us hear and see 
That left us cold and afraid to stir. 
But a woman shrieking with the fright on her ! 
[117] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

And for long the folk in the parish said 
That Ballinawee was a place to dread, 
Because of the fires that, some allege. 
Are fluttering still at Fitzgerald's hedge. 

But Sheamus and I grew up the years 
With the secret in us, though it now appears 
That the age is on him, and from what I hear 
He thinks, himself, that the place is queer. 



[ii8l 



JOY TO YOU 

Joy to you and gladness, 

And that your soul may be 
As far away from sadness 

As the Star was from the sea, 
When the Sheep-Boy, the Sheep-Boy, 

Heard Heaven's melody. 

Smiles to you and laughter. 

And also that you may 
Be merry the morning after 

On good St. Stephen's Day, 
When the Wren-Boy, the Wren-Boy, 

Shall sing his roundalay. 

Joy to you and gladness, 

And that the mid-night bell 
May ring away the sadness 

From the stricken Old Year's knell, 
When the Chimes-Boy, the Chimes-Boy, 

Strikes "Welcome" and "Farewell". 



[119I 



THE COLLIE 

The goats, that graze with the cattle, keep 
In the company of the cows and sheep 

At the coming home to the field and fold — 
At the coming on of the sleep. 

And as for the dog and I, 'twould seem 
We chum as two with a single scheme 

At the coming home to the kitchen hearth- 
At the coming on of the dream. 

For here am I at the fire-side now 
With a fancy on me, wondering how 

Old Shep can sleep, while barking away 
At the wandering heels of a cow. 



[120] 



THE HERDSMAN'S SON 

One day I wished when the wind was blowing, 
To go away with the flighty men 

Who know not where they might be going, 
And come, like Columbus, home again. 

And all at once, the fingering zephyrs 
Made harps and lyres of the windy air 

Between the horns of the cows and heifers — 
And all at once I was Otherwhere. 



For I've been off in an alien Distance 

Where Foreign Folk were thumbing strains 

Of Fairy charms; but, with resistance, 

I was sent, like Columbus, home in chains. 



[121] 



THE AWAKENING 

The Mind awoke, and gazing out 

She whispered through Her lattice-bars; 
"Is the darkness of the night about, 
Or is the day abroad?" No doubt 
She can always see the stars. 



[122] 



O GIRL UNKNOWN 

O Girl unknown, that face of yours 
So beautifully sweet, endures 
The search-light of admiring eyes, 
To their surprise! 

For to myself I said of you : 
"If such is seen in eyes of blue, 
Their soul must hide a beauty such 
As naught might touch." 

But eyes of mine have had their fill 
Of your frail beauteousness, and still 
Your Woman failed to realize 
My Man's surprise. 



[ 123 ] 



SHEP 

I knew old Shep a month or so 

Before I liked the dog, although 

He liked me fully in his way 

When first we met; and Shep, to-day, 

Would know me in a crowd of men 

And cattle were I all of ten 

Broad fields away from him. Yet he, 

The symbol of Fidelity, 

Is a friend that cannot realize 

He knows me only with his eyes. 



[124] 



THE LONG BEARD 

Scarcely a road at all it was — 

The little way that ran 
To the home of Danny Keane who wore 

What most becomes a man; 
And scarcely a face you could see at all 

Through the beard of Galway Dan. 

Out in a cattle fair he stood 

And he with a homely cow; 
But the man, who wanted to buy the beast, 

By all the powers did vow 
That though she were not good at the pail, 

She might be yoked to a plow. 

Over the bargain both were stiff, 
But at last the sale was struck; 

And the beast was sold for eleven pounds 
With half a crown for luck. 

While Galway Dan, with a satisfied air. 
At his beard began to pluck. 

Then happened the strangest thing at all — 

A wonderful thing and weird — 
For the sound of a swarm of bees was heard 

[125] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

And faithj they soon appeared 
O'er the bulky form of Galway Dan 
And settled in his beard. 

With a laughing shout the busy fair 

Was soon in a hub-a-bub; 
But someone shook the beard above 

An empty butter tub, 
And the half a crown, paid down for luck, 

Was spent at the nearest Pub. 

O luck may come in many ways 

And it goes on wings galore; 
But the luckiest thing in Ireland, 

Since the honied days of yore. 
Is a swarm of bees, for it brings the luck 

That lasts forevermore. 

'Twas scarcely a road at all that went 
To the home of Galway Dan ; 

But now the way is wide enough 
For the carriage of a Khan, 

And many a face in Galway wears 
What most becomes a man. 



[126] 



THE BEGGAR'S BLESSING ^ 

God bless us all, Ma'am, bad and good! 
God bless us, as He said He would, 
And may He wither the bramble-wood 
For every Munster fire. 

With stick in hand for ram or dog, 
I've wandered over baun and bog 
And passed the crowded Cross, begog, 
To sit before your fire. 

Sure, the robineens, with flaming breasts 
And feathered hearts in cosy nests, 
Are not so warm as he v/ho rests 
And sings beside your fire; 

Nor are the larks that occupy 
The cloudy nooks within the sky, 
So happy-hearted. Ma'am, as I 
While dreaming at your fire. 

Though in a camp that brightly glowed, 
I left the tinkers on the road, 
Where song was free and porter flowed, 
To drowse beside your fire; 

[127] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

Because the youth, that kept me gay, 
Is gone from my four bones to-day, 
And the tinkers have a quarrelsome way 
Of sitting at the fire. 

Ah! woman, dear, of all the lanes 
That lead to farmers' green domains, 
I'd sooner take the one that gains. 
For me, this welcome fire. 

That burns in what has proved to be 
A house of hospitality, 
And I shall sing, where it pleases me, 
Of Ballyshunock's fire. 

God bless us all. Ma'am, bad and good! 
God bless us, as He said He would. 
And may He wither bramble-wood 
For every Irish fire. 



[ 128 1 



BLOWING THE FIRE 

At the fire-wheel, in the chimney nook, 
I have blown the coals beneath the crook, 
While roaming all the world around 
On a sailing ship in a story book. 

The coals were burning, as they ever burn 
On the Munster floors, and every turn 
Of the hearth-machine brought forth the sound 
Of screws a-whirling at a steamer's stern. 

And the noisy fancy I heard in Kill, 
While blowing the fire, was with me till 
I heard the loud reality 
While sailing off from a lingering hill. 

O surely a score of years is long 
Enough away from the pot-hook's prong. 
For one who sees the Queenstown Quay 
From a sailing ship in a quiet song. 



[129] 



THE FORTUNE-SEEKERS 

Leaning over the steamer's rail 

And the leaping foam below, 
I saw that the sheen of spray was dyed 

And shaped like a bright rain-bow. 

And wondering who might find the bow's 
Gold band that veined the sea, 

An emigrant ship was seen in the wake 
Of the West-bound Argosy 

That sailed the sky — the while it bore 
Sealed orders stamped by Fate — 

With Hope commanding the Sun-lit Ship 
And Fortune, the Captain's mate. 



1 130] 



BALLAD OF THE BUTTER 

Young Phelim stood at the Friars' Gate 
And asked for the old Lord Abbot; 

Since he would be an humble monk 
In Augustine's holy habit. 

"Now what do you know of the inside world 

To cause this step uncertain, 
And what have you done in the outside world 

O'er which you would draw a curtain?" 

" I know full well that your inside world 

Is Augustine's Holy City, 
And all I did in the outside world 

Was done in rhyme or ditty." 

"Now if that be so," the Prior said, 
"You must leave the World your lyre; 

For a song profane would ill become 
The lips of a holy friar." 

"And would you take that gift away 
Which the Lord to me has given, 

And would you take from me that gift 
Which I hope to bring to Heaven ?" 

[131] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

"That power I might not take from you 
Which the Lord placed in King David, 

But your soul is more than a Gaelic gift 
To the One Who freely gave it." 

"Yet I shall make you a novice, though 

You seem a doubting Thomas, 
And as to the fate of your rhyming art 

I shall ask no binding promise." 

Young Phelim lived as a novice there 
And remained as a lowly brother, 

For though he was in the inside World 
His thoughts were out in the other. 

Now it chanced one day that Phelim begged 

From many a farmer's dairy 
Small butter-pats, the taste of which 

In the best of farms will vary. 

Off to the Drogheda fair he went, 
With the gathering, for to sell it; 

And the buyer's auger a sample bore 
From the tub that he might smell it. 

But a part was the color of pallid cream 
And a part of it was yellow, 

[132] 



BALLAD OF THE BUTTER 

And a part was the color of saffron straw 
And part of it was mellow. 

Home to his convent Phellm came 
With the tub that the fair rejected, 

And for many a day the bread was spread 
With the butter that he collected. 

And many a day, from that strange tub, 
The Prior's bread was buttered; 

Nor was he heard to complain at all, 
For a thanks to God he muttered, 

Until, one noon, his toes were seen 
To twitch within their sandals; 

And what was left in the butter-tub. 
Was moulded into candles. 

"Now, Brother Phelim," the Prior said, 

" I bid you make some verses 
In as strong a form as you know how 

With calm sarcastic curses." 

"In as strong a form as you know how. 
And let him read who chooses." 

So Brother Phelim went off to sit 
Among the heathen Muses. 
[133I 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

And when his mirthful task was done 
It was read to the monks at supper, 

And sent abroad to the farmers' wives 
From Lower Louth to Upper. 

That night the satire-maker's sleep 

Was troubled, as he lay turning 
In dreams, while an angel skimmed the cream 

Off his soul for the final churning. 

While the good Old Prior of Louth was heard, 

In his slumber-talk, to mutter 
A blessing on all rich Gaelic rhyme 

And a curse on the County's butter. 

Och! sorry am I that women burned 

The verse that was freely given 
By the begging poet, for it is now 

But known to Phelim in Heaven. 



[134] 



THE MOON-GLADE 

By Envagh's Lake, where ripples whispered 
To Silence seen as nocturnal silver, 
I walked as one who would tread the waters 
A moon had marked with a path-way straight 
And dustlessly white. The ribbony end 
Of the way was lost in distant darkness, 
From which it ran to my eager feet; 
And as I rounded the circled flood, 
The path, that ended before me, moved 
With the onward steps of one who saw 
The Grace of God, as a moon-glade, shining 
In Nature's Soul. Then came the wind 
That shadowed the ripples sparkling there. 
And the silvern path was suddenly broken 
To faded ruins, before dimmed eyes 
That beheld, with awe, the effects of Evil. 

By Envagh's Lake I wandered, lonely, 
On a beach that margined a mystery, 
As one who would walk abroad on waters 
Like erring Peter, or the sinless petral 
That bears his name. 

Seen, but unfelt. 
Like mirrored lire, the moon's white flame 
Went off to cloisters veiled with cloud; 
[135] 



THE CAIRN OF STARS 

And a rain of reflected stars began 

To strike the darkness with sudden sparks. 

By Envagh's Lake I gazed upon 
The contrite Soul of Nature, She 
Whose beauty whispered from silent waters 
To one who walked in darkness other 
Than that in which the moon-glade moved. 



[136] 



THE FROZEN BROOK 

As when, from skies where frozen splendors gleam, 
The chilled moon's breath, as white as Winter's dew, 
Is borne by trembling winds between the two 
Grey margins of a ripple-moving stream. 
Till, slowly (as a poet's twilight-theme 
Grows out of grey and passes into blue) 
The ashen water, shadowed with the hue 
Of sappirine, becomes a glossy dream: 

So Time bears on the Winter of our years 
To Memory's brook, which, color-cold and still, 
Takes on a frosted sky with stars bedimmed. 
When old, we but remember what appears 
As a dreamy distance iced upon the rill 
O'er which a Summer's swallow-thoughts had 
skimmed. 



[137I 



WHEN ALONE 

When, alone, I hear the breezes 
Whistling reels and rounded jigs, 

'Tis myself remembers something, 
Something more than dancing twigs. 

For I met her at the cross-roads. 
And I asked her with a glance, 

While the leaves were taking partners 
With their shadows for a dance. 

So we jigged it with the shadows 
And we danced it with the leaves. 

Till the wrens were housed in hedges 
And the swallows sought their eaves. 

Then, with feet that were as supple 
As the fiddler's nimble hand, 

She went off, while laughing glances 
Which I failed to understand, 

Till I heard a rustling laughter 
Hushed with kisses in a bough — 

Och! 'twas then I minded something 
That should be a memory now. 
[138] 



THE VIRGIN KISS 

That I may sing "Farewell" 
To Nature, when I hear 

The sky, within a moon-like shell, 
Murmuring at my ear. 

That I may say "Good-bye" 
To Erinn, with the breath 

About to be anointed by 
The virgin kiss of Death. 

And O that I may take 

My whispering leave of You, 

America, as I awake 
To find my dreams come true! 



[139] 



NOTES 



NOTES 

^ White Fire. In Killydart, a town-land in the domain 
of the Duke of Abercorn. 

^ The Ruined Wonder. A Fairy palace, in the same do- 
main, on Bessy Bell Mountain, Tyrone. 

^The Orator. Rev. Matthew C. Gleeson, U. S. N., in 
St. Patrick's Cathedral on the 50th. anniversary of the 
departure of the 69th Regiment for the Civil War, April 
23, 1861. 

^ Ethna Carbery. The Irish poet, Anna Johnston Mac- 
Manus, who "closed her eyes on Ireland of her heart's 
love", April 12, 1902. 

^ Cailin. i. e. a girl. 

^ The Hillock. Knockshigowna i. e. Cnoc-Sidhe-Eabhna, 
the hill of Una's fairy palace near Ballingarry in Tipper- 
ary. Una was the guardian spirit of certain Munster clans. 

'^ baun. i. e. badhun, an enclosure or a field for cattle. 

^ borheen. i. e. bohereen, a little road. 

^ duidin. a smoking-pipe with a short stem. 

^° borheen. i. e. bohereen, a little road, 
shuler. i. e. suibhloir, a traveller. 

^^ form. i. e. forma, cL bench or seat. 



145] 



The book that has its ending here was put together for 
the glory of God, and the honor of Ireland; and it is I, 
Francis Carlin, who put an end to the finishing of it on 
the feast-day of Mobhi who was of Glasnevin. 

1919 



BY PADRAIC COLU M 

WILD EARTH AND OTHER POEMS 

$1.25 net 

"Irish as the author's name are the poems in this col- 
lection. Mr. Colum is a terse and vivid chronicler of the 
lives of the Irish poor. Of the romances and tragedies of 
peat cabins and thatch-roofed farmhouses ; of homeless old 
women, weary of mist and dark; of wanderers who earn 
their supper by singing country songs to the guests of the 
inn; and of young lovers stealing away from the fiddlers 
and from 'converse and dancing' to kiss by the hawthorn 
bush." — The Bellman. 

THE KING OF IRELAND'S SON 
Illustrated by Willy Pogany. $2.00 net 

An Irish folk romance. The Tale is concerned with 
simple human beings, and in the background are enchant- 
ers, cats, eagles, and fairies, treated, according to Celtic 
tradition, as the old Gods. The stories are based upon the 
traditional motives of Gaelic romance. 

"A book of uncommon beauty in form and content. All 
the glamour of Celtic folk-literature are here — only time 
can seal it as a classic, but I almost expect that much of 
time." — H. W. Boynton, in The Bookman. 



HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
Publishers New York 



BY WALTER DE LA MARE 

PEACOCK PIE 

Illustrated by W. Heath Robinson. $2.00 net 

There is always a suggestion of magic about Mr. De la 
Mare's poems. From a simple beginning, the reader is 
suddenly lifted out of the tangible into something a little 
beyond his grasp. This magic lies not so much in what 
Mr. De la Mare says as the voice in which he says it and 
the gesture which accompanies it. 

"Peacock Pie is the most authentic knapsack of fairy 
gold since the Child's Garden of Verses. One's first 
thought is that it is a collection of poems for children. 
But before you have gone very far you will find that the 
imaginary child you set out with has been magicked into a 
changeling. When, at last, you have finished, it will be 
with the sigh of one who has been thrilled through and 
through. 

"One may well despair of conveying in a few rough 
paragraphs the gist of this quaint, fanciful, brooding 
charm. There is something fey about much of the book. 
In its love of children, its- inspired simplicity, its sparkle 
of whim and i^sopian brevity, I know of nothing finer." 
— C. D. M., in The Boston Transcript. 

THE LISTENERS 

$1.25 net 

Of The Listeners, The Provideitce Journal said: 
"Rarely does one come across so lovely a wind-flower of 
verse. One feels one has in truth entered the enchanted 
country." 



HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
Publishers New York 



ROBERT FROST 

"An authentic original voice in literature." — The Atlantic 
Monthly. 

NORTH OF BOSTON 

special illustrated edition , $6.00 

Rarely does an artist enter as completely into the spirit 
of a poet's work as Mr. Chapin in his fifteen drawings for 
this special edition of Mr. Frost's most important volume of 
poetry. 

Interpretations would be a fitter word for them than illus- 
trations; for every lover of Mr. Frost's work will come to a 
deeper understanding of it through these pictures. The 
frontispiece is a portrait and there are drawings for fourteen 
of the poems. 

Reproductions of the drawings are on a special cream paper 
with darker cream plate marking. The text is printed on 
Kelmscott English hand made paper. The title page is hand 
drawn. , The book itself is beautifully, appropriately bound in 
dark green half boards, with cloth back and gold label. 

Other editions 

Cloth $1.30 

Leather $2.00 

MOUNTAIN INTERVAL 

$1.25 

" A remarkable work touched with prophecy and poetic pas- 
sion." — Brooklyn Eagle. 

" A poetic art almost classical in its restraint." — Review of 
Reviews. 

" The same distinguished and distinctive features as its 
predecessors, with perhaps still finer finish, color, mellow- 
ness, delicacy and half-hid humor." — Chicago Herald. 

A BOY'S WILL Mr. Frost's First Volume of Poetry 

$1.00 

"We have read every line with that amazement and delight 
which are too seldom evoked by books of modern verse." — 
The Academy (^London'). 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
Publishers New York 



THE NEW POETRY 



CHICAGO POEMS 

By Carl Sandburg. $i-35 net. 

In his ability to concentrate a whole story or picture or 
character within the compass of a few lines, Mr. Sand- 
burg's work compares favorably with the best achieve- 
ments of the recent successful American poets. It is, 
however, distinguished by its trenchant note of social 
criticism and by its vision of a better social order. 

NORTH OF BOSTON 
By Robert Frost. 6th printing, $1.30 net. 

"The first poet for half a century to express New England 
life completely with a fresh, original and appealing way of his 
own." — Boston Transcript. 

"An authentic original voice in literature." — Atlantic 
Monthly. 

A BOY'S WILL 

By Robert Frost. 3rd printing, $1.00 net. 

Mr. Frost's first volume of poetry. 

"We have read every line with that amazement and delight 
which are too seldom evoked by books of modern verse." — 
The Academy {London) . 

THE LISTENERS 

By Walter De La Mare. $1.35 net. 

Mr. De la Mare expresses with undeniable beauty of 
verse those things a little bit beyond our ken and con- 
sciousness, and, as well, our subtlest reactions to nature 
and to life. 

" AND OTHER POETS" 



By Louis Untermeyer. $1.25 net. 

Mirth and thought-provoking parodies, by the author 
of "Challenge," of such modern Parnassians as Mase- 
field, Frost, Masters, Yeats, Amy Lowell, Noyes, Dob- 
son and 'T. P. A." 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

Publishers New York 



The Third Edition, Revised and Enlarged, of 

THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE 

COMPILED BY 

BURTON E. STEVENSON 

has been revised from end to end — 590 poems have been 
added, pages renumbered, author, title, and first line in- 
dices, and the biographical matter corrected, etc., etc. 

The hundreds of letters from readers and poets suggest- 
ing additions or corrections as vrell as the columns of 
reviews of the first edition have been considered. Poets 
Vi^ho were chary of lending their support to an unknown 
venture have now generously permitted the use of their 
work. 

This edition includes the "new" poets such as Mase- 
FiELD, Chesterton, Frost, Rupert Brooke, de la 
Mare, Ralph Hodgson, etc. 

"A collection so complete and distinguished that it is 
difficult to find any other approaching it sufficiently for 
comparison." — Neiu York Times Book Review on the 
first edition. 

India Paper, 4,096 pages 

Cloth, one volume, $12.50 net. 

Cloth, two volumes, $16.00 net. 

Half Morocco, one volume, $15. 00 net. 

Half Morocco, two volumes, $25.00 net. 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

publishers new YORK 



